


The Oldest Immortal

by belovedmuerto



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-31
Updated: 2000-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:03:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	The Oldest Immortal

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

The Oldest Immortal by Elizabeth p. 1/2

_The Oldest Immortal_

By Elizabeth 

* * *

Duncan MacLeod felt out of shape and quite fat. In response to those insecurities, he pushed himself very close to his limits. Not a single errant thought entered his head. There was only his own voice, repeating the movements of the exercise like a mantra, urging him to keep going, to push harder, to move faster. 

When finally the Highlander forced himself to stop, sweat dripped from every pore. His lungs and throat ached each time he drew a breath. His body trembled with fatigue. He felt great. 

The sensation that told him that another Immortal was nearby swept through him as he slowly made his way to the bench where his towel and water bottle sat. He fell heavily onto the smooth wood, watching the door, deciding to be cautious but not overly alarmed. It could be Richie, or Methos, or even Amanda. A month had passed since he last saw his on-again, off-again lover. He missed her. 

The light 'ahem' of someone clearing their throat broke his reverie. MacLeod looked over at a goddess. His sword slipped from his fingers and clattered on the hardwood. 

MacLeod knew he was gaping; however, his brain refused to pass along to his jaw the information that it needed to shut itself. 

The apparition smiled faintly at him. Duncan thought he might have sighed. 

"I didn't want to disturb you," the immortal goddess spoke. "You looked so...intense." 

He may or may not have nodded. All he could really do was stare. Truly, she had to be a goddess. Her hair was so black it was blue, falling like a small waterfall to just above her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep stormy navy blue. But they were more. There were hints of violet in their depths, of green and grey. Duncan hadn't ever seen eyes that mesmerizing color before. He was reminded of the Highlands during a violent storm. Her hair and eyes were contrasted by the milk and roses pureness of her skin. It looked to be as smooth as fine silk or soft leather, as delicate as glass or porcelain. Her features were worthy of sculpture, elegant, as a queen's should be. Her face was heart shaped with high cheekbones any woman would kill for; her eyes wide but almond shaped and surrounded by long lashes. Her nose was small with just a touch of a point. There was a rosy tint to her cheeks and in her lips. The column of her throat was long and slender, her shoulders held high, her back as straight as a steel beam—perfect posture. She was clad in a pair of bootcut grey wool pants over black wing-tipped Doc Martens with a soft black cashmere turtleneck sweater and the obligatory black trenchcoat. Duncan just wanted to touch her. 

"Who are you?" MacLeod asked. "How did you get in here without my noticing?" He wondered how anyone could miss an entrance made by her. 

The young woman smiled. Duncan was lost. She looked to be in her early twenties, but one of the first lessons of immortality was that appearances could be deceiving. 

"My name is..." she paused for a moment. "Molly MacLaurin." She didn't answer his second question. 

"Have you come for me?" 

Molly laughed. "No, of course not. I came to get acquainted. I've heard a lot about you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." 

"Oh." Then he added, "How did you get in here without me noticing you?" 

"It's just one of those things I can do." 

"Are you a witch?" 

"No." She smiled. 

Before Duncan could continue his impromptu interrogation of the goddess, they both sensed another immortal approaching. Duncan turned to see Methos come through the front doors. Molly watched over Duncan's shoulder, arms crossed, leaning in the door to his office. 

"Hello, MacLeod," Methos greeted. 

Duncan stopped himself before addressing the older man by his real name. "Pearson," he replied. 

Molly observed the exchange with a wicked smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She caught Methos' eye and nodded at Duncan. Methos smiled his reply and began to speak. Molly drew her sword and discarded her coat with a swish and flair. 

"METHOS." The pure hatred in her voice could have killed lesser men. 

Methos took an involuntary step back and drew his own sword, immediately on the defensive. "M-M-Molly," he stuttered, looking completely panic-stricken. "I-I—" 

"Son of a bitch!" the woman swore, moving toward him. 

Duncan backed out of the way, stunned. _Why does Methos seem so terrified of this girl?_ he wondered. 

"Molly," Methos began again. He was trying to get himself under control, trying to appear calm. "I-I—" 

"I should've killed you the last time I saw you!" Molly advanced towards him again. 

"The last time you saw me we were in a church." He'd regained his composure and was now rising to her unspoken challenge. 

"Fine then, true enough. I'll take your head now." 

"HA!" Methos sputtered. "You wouldn't last five whole minutes against me, Little One!" 

"Oh, that's funny. Why don't you tell me another one, Old Man." She lifted her sword and swung at him. 

Duncan watched in horror as the two moved about the room in a furious and fatal dance. It was obvious to the Highlander that the young goddess was indeed an ancient, maybe even quite close in age to her adversary. They appeared to be evenly matched in skill. Methos had a slight advantage in strength, while she held the upper hand in agility. 

"You killed my mother!" the goddess raged at one point. 

Methos' reply was a lunge. 

"And my father," her voice rose above the clanging of metal on metal. 

"You're nuts. You never had a mother and father!" 

"And all my brothers and sisters!" 

"Crazy bitch." 

Molly screamed and lunged wildly, narrowly missing her target. For long, tense moments, neither of them accused the other of anything. Duncan stood watching the gridlock in awe, wondering vaguely if she knew Methos from his days as a Horseman. 

"You killed my husband! Three different times!" the goddess gasped. She was losing her breath, her heart pounded. 

Methos' own heart was just as loud. He too was slightly winded. "An angry mob killed William, Molly. Flannaghan killed himself. That knocks out two." 

"Well, you incited the mob. And you really did kill Nigel!" 

"He desperately deserved it after what he did to you, Little One." 

"Don't call me 'Little One,' Old Man." 

Duncan was beginning to wonder if he was missing something. His thoughts dissolved into horror when the goddess was victorious. Her opponent's sword clattered harmlessly to the floor three feet from its owner's grasp. Methos dropped to his knees, an expression of acute sadness on his face. 

"No!" shouted the helpless Duncan. He could do nothing but challenge her once the Quickening had abated. That too would be fruitless. She would have more than five thousands years of power coursing through her veins. His mere four centuries would be no match at all. 

"Cut clean, Sha'uri," Methos requested, accepting his defeat by hanging his head. 

Molly raised her sword to strike the final blow. "You killed my best friend," she said in an agonized whisper. "And my favourite dog." 

Methos looked up at her and grinned. "Silly. I _am_ your best friend." 

Molly lowered her weapon and relaxed. "Funny how you remember the important stuff when you're about to lose your head." 

"I wasn't ever in any danger of losing my head." Methos got off his knees and dusted off his pants. "And it was the goldfish I killed, not that damn dog." 

Molly crossed over to his discarded sword, picked it up and tossed it expertly across the room to him. He caught it one-handed. 

"I know you weren't," she replied. "But it's true, isn't it? I loved that dog." 

"Well...yes, I suppose so. Though, I wouldn't know. I hated that dog." 

"Thank the gods for that. And he hated you." 

One last time, their swords met, though this time it was in a gesture of friendship, like a secret handshake. Molly picked up her coat and dusted it off, putting it back on when finished. Methos concealed his sword. 

MacLeod stood rooted to the floor, gaping like a fish out of water. _They're both still living. It was an act?!_ "What the hell was that all about?!" he finally managed to inquire, in a near roar. 

The other two immortals turned to him as though they had just remembered he was there. They looked at each other in silent communication for a moment, then Molly answered with a brilliant smile, and "It was all in fun, Duncan." 

"FUN?!?!" MacLeod wasn't trying to manage his anger. They'd scared the living daylights out of him. 

Molly laughed and nodded. 

"Yes, Mac. Fun," Methos replied. "Shall I explain the concept for you?" 

Molly laughed again. Her laugh was like angels singing. Even through his anger, Duncan noticed that. 

"You didn't want to kill each other? 'Cause it sure as hell looked like it." 

"No," Molly replied. 

"Of course not!" Methos added, putting his arm around the younger woman. 

"What was the point then?" MacLeod was calming down. 

"To scare the living daylights out of you. It worked didn't it?" Molly grinned wickedly. 

Duncan sheepishly admitted their ploy had worked with a nod. "How long have you two known each other?" 

"A very, very, very long time," Molly replied. 

Methos pulled her closer. "I don't remember the first time I met her." 

"I do," Molly said softly. "You were a cute kid." 

"Wait a minute," Duncan interjected, trying to grasp what they were saying. "How old _are_ you, Molly?" 

"Why, Duncan, a girl never reveals her true age," she replied, affecting a perfect Southern accent. 

"How long have you known each other?" Duncan insisted. "What? Four thousand years? More?" 

"A _lot_ more." 

"Since time immemorial." 

"Would you please just give me a straight answer!" 

Molly sighed. She looked at her best friend. They communicated silently. Methos shrugged. 

"Duncan, when I met Methos," Molly took a deep breath. "He was a babe-in-arms, and I was about a thousand years old." 

"What!?" 

"I'm six thousand years old." Almost unconsciously, Molly's arm slipped around her friend's waist. It wasn't noticeable, but she was clinging to him for dear life. He understood how hard this was for her. Very few people knew her true age. He didn't understand her reason for telling the Scot, but she felt she should, that he should know, and it was her decision and hers alone, so he would support her in it. 

"That isn't possible," Duncan denied. 

"Why not?" 

"Because it isn't. Methos is the oldest immortal. You can't be older than he is." 

"Well, I am, MacLeod. I'm older than he is. Doesn't it stand to reason that I'm a teeny bit more cautious than him? The Watchers found out about him long ago. They haven't yet discovered the truth about me. And if they do.... Well, I'll deal with that if and when it happens." Molly shrugged. "What can I say? Dearie got sloppy. I didn't. He's the oldest _known_ immortal. _I_ am the oldest immortal." 

Duncan shook his head, trying to absorb that information. _Methos' best friend is a full thousand years older than he is? How is this possible?_

He was shaken out of his stupor by Molly's melodious laughter. 

"What's so funny?" he asked. 

"Your face! You look so perplexed. Don't try to reason through this, Duncan. You just have to accept it as fact—which it is. Why would I lie about this?" 

"Why wouldn't you?" Duncan countered, crossing his arms, obviously refusing to believe Molly's statement. 

The woman sighed, crossed her arms, and glared at Duncan. Then she glanced at her oldest friend. < _You talk to him._ >

Methos mentally took a step back and held up his hands. < _Nuh-uh. No way. This is your project. You make him believe you._ >

< _Oh yeah? How?_ >

< _Hmmm.... I would suggest beating him over the head with a blunt object._ >

< _That would only succeed in killing him, idiot._ >

< _It might work if you did it a few times._ >

< _You are disgusting and twisted and evil, Old Man._ >

Methos didn't reply. 

< _But yes, darling, I'll think about it. Gotta keep my options open._ >

< _You'll think of something, love. You always do._ >

< _Your confidence is inspiring._ >

< _You're full of bullshit._ >

< _I invented bullshit, Methos._ >

< _Really? I would have liked to be present for that one._ >

< _Oh funny._ >

Duncan tried to match the stares of the two ancients before him, but it became increasingly difficult. They were communicating silently in some way, though to what extent MacLeod didn't know. 

The Highlander broke the stare by turning to grab his bottle of water. 

Molly spoke to his back, and he turned around. "There are lots of things I could say to prove my age to you. I could tell you how the pyramids were built, but why bother? Everyone knows it was the aliens." 

Duncan couldn't help but smile. He noticed Methos was doing the same. 

"I could tell you the exact location of the Holy Grail. But what good would that do one of us? Besides, the killer rabbit would get you on the way. I could tell you nearly anything, and it wouldn't make much difference one way or another. So you are—" Molly cut herself off, seized by a violent fit of coughing. 

Methos patted her back. "Mol, are you okay?" 

"Yes," she coughed. "Fine." 

"You sound like you're about to hack up a lung." 

"And wouldn't that—" more coughing, "—be delightful fun." 

When she finished coughing and straightened, it was to be faced with her best friend glaring in concern with crossed arms. Duncan too looked a touch worried. 

"Are you quite finished?" Methos asked. 

Molly glared right back at him. "Yes, thank you." 

"Good. Now tell me what's going on." 

"Nothing's going on, Methos. Can't I have a tickle in my throat?" 

"Not when it's like that. You look flushed." Methos reached for her forehead. 

She slapped his hand away. "I am not flushed! Christ Almighty, what is this? The Spanish Inquisition?! I'm fine, Methos. Drop it, ok?" 

Methos gave her a look that said he didn't believe her at all, for a single second. But he was going to let it drop for the moment. He would sit on her later if that were what it took to get her to tell him. 

Molly turned to say something to Duncan, but instead slumped against her best friend in a dead faint. Methos lowered her to the floor. Duncan dropped down beside him. 

"Is she okay?" 

"What do you think?" Methos snapped. He reached out and felt her forehead. "Christ, she's burning up!" 

"Is that your medical opinion?" Duncan asked in a vain attempt at lightness. 

"Shut-up, MacLeod." 

Duncan lay his own hand against the woman's forehead. He wanted proof that they weren't still toying with him. "She really is burning up!" 

"Is that your medical opinion?" Methos threw back at him. 

"Sorry," the Highlander muttered, abashed. 

Methos leaned over his friend and slapped her cheek lightly. "Sha'uri? Come on, love. Wake up. Wake up, Sha'uri." 

Molly's eyes fluttered open. "Whoa. That's new." 

"Sha'uri, tell me what's going on. Now." 

"Calm down, Methos. I'm not that sick. You don't have to freak with worry. Help me up." 

The world's oldest man and the Scot helped her sit up, but refused to allow her to stand. 

"Molly Marie MacLaurin, you just dropped into a dead faint. You can't expect me to not be a touch worried. I am not yet freaking out though, thank you very much." 

"Yes you are," she countered softly. "You called me Sha'uri." 

"Oh." 

"Is Sha'uri your real name?" Duncan interjected. 

Molly turned to him. "Yes. Why?" 

"I like it. It's pretty." 

"Oh, thank you! I like it myself. Which is a good thing, since I've been stuck with it for the last six thousand years." 

"Do you prefer it over Molly?" 

"No. Molly is fine. It's normal. I've had it for quite some time. Nobody calls me Sha'uri anymore, 'cept Methos, and he only does it—" 

"Molly." There was a warning in Methos' voice. 

The old woman turned on her friend with a look that could turn sand to glass. "Look, I've got a head cold, or the flu, or some other such annoying pesky thing. It is _no_ a big deal. Now stop worrying. I command it. Good Christ, you are such a pain in my ass!" 

"I am not." 

"Yes, dear. You just stay there in your happy little world of denial as long as you like. Ain't just a river in Egypt, you know." Molly turned back to Duncan. "As I was saying before His Royal Majesty the King of all Pains in the Ass interrupted me—" 

"The Queen," Methos muttered. 

Molly's jaw dropped. Her eyes widened. She turned to stare at the insolent younger immortal, not even needing to communicate mentally that he would get it for that one, for her expression said it all. Then she swung back to Duncan. 

"Anyway. As I was saying. Methos only calls me Sha'uri when he's extremely worried about me. Usually for no good reason. He likes to worry. It's practically a hobby." 

MacLeod raised his brows. _Methos? The only man on the planet who truly cares for no one but himself? A worrywart? Surely, you jest._

Molly put both of her hands on her forehead, covering her eyes, and moaned softly. 

"Can we take her upstairs? She needs to lie down," Methos asked Duncan. 

"I do not need to go upstairs," Molly said without removing her hands. "I do not need to lie down." Her voice lacked conviction. 

Methos scooped his dearest friend up off the floor and walked over to the lift. Mac followed suit, bewildered by the odd turn the afternoon had taken. 

* * *

To Molly's surprise, Methos actually set her on her own feet in Duncan's loft, by the couch. Then he helped her out of her trench coat. 

"Sit," Methos ordered. 

Molly sat. The younger immortal sat across from her on the coffee table and picked up one of her feet. 

"Oh geez Methos, I can take off my own shoes. For crying out loud." 

"Mmm-hmm," he agreed. He removed one shoe, set her foot down, and picked up the other to repeat the process. 

Molly leaned back into the couch with a sigh and let him. She was suddenly bone weary. Her head ached, along with most of the rest of her, and she was freezing. But she did not shiver. She refused, not wanting to worry Methos any more than he already was. He always worried too much about her, and as sick as she was—much worse off than she let on—she didn't want to have to reassure him. _That would just be another thing to add to my list of problems. And that list is already too long._

Methos tried not to let the extent of his worry for his oldest friend show. For as long as he could remember, he had watched out for her and she for him. It was second nature. If she died of course it wasn't too big a deal, but Methos was beginning to think that to be a real possibility and that alone terrified and boggled him. Molly was much worse off than she realized. 

_Or else, she's trying not to let on for your sake,_ a very reasonable voice inside his head told him. _The girl can be fiercely protective._

_Damn pragmatism,_ Methos thought. _Shut-up._

MacLeod retrieved a blanket from his linen closet and tucked it around the girl. She gave him an almost-smile of thanks as he sat beside her. 

"Are you thirsty?" Methos asked. 

Molly shook her head. One tiny shiver escaped her control, and all was lost. Methos noticed. 

"You're shivering." It was almost an accusation. 

"Oh," she retorted, her teeth starting to chatter, "so that's what it's called." 

"Hot cocoa?" 

Molly nodded. Methos patted her knee then hurried off. 

Duncan watched in awe as Methos bustled around his kitchen, getting out a saucepan, milk, and what looked to be chocolate chips from the freezer. 

"Hey Mac," he called over his shoulder. "Where's your cocoa, sugar, and cinnamon?" 

"Cabinet on your left," Duncan directed. 

"I'm not that sick you know," Molly said quietly. 

"Oh really?" Duncan couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the old man _cooking_ in his kitchen. He'd never seen anything as out of place as Methos-the-cook was. 

"I had the plague. Twice," she continued. "This is a bloody picnic compared to that. My head hurts." 

"If I had aspirin I'd offer it to you." 

"Damn immortal immune systems." 

"I'll say." 

Molly tore her gaze away from her bustling young friend to look at the Scot. She laughed at his expression, finally drawing all of his attention. 

"What?" 

"You've never seen him like this, have you?" 

"No way. Never knew he could be so...." 

"Girlie?" 

MacLeod chuckled. "Not quite the word I was looking for." 

"Considerate?" 

"Yes. Considerate." 

"Nurturing, nice, gentle?" 

"I get the point. Didn't know he could cook either. Thought the man existed on beer alone." 

Molly smiled. "He doesn't much display this side. I think all of about two people—that are alive—have seen it. And you're talking to the other one." She broke into another spasm of coughing. Duncan patted her back. 

In the kitchen, Methos immediately turned. "Are you all right, dear?" 

"Yes, Methos darling." 

"He called you dear," Duncan said quietly. 

Again, Molly smiled. "Frightening, isn't it?" 

He smiled back. "Extremely. So, tell me about these husbands Methos killed on you? Were they real, or did you just make it up?" 

"Oh no, they were real enough. Those three men were Methos' failed attempts at marrying me off. The first was back at the turn of the millenium. His name was Nigel—" 

"Oh gods," Methos spoke up from the kitchen. "Molly, not those three again. I've told you I'm sorry a million times." 

"Duncan asked. I'm only telling him what happened. Anyway. He was a terrible alcoholic, and just about the worst gambler, I've ever met. Came home one day with this big Arab guy. He'd sold me to pay his debts. He's the one Methos actually killed. Took him three years to find me." Molly shuddered. "Then, in the very early twelve hundreds, I married this English feudal lord, William Eliot. Methos became a serf. William beat me to death because he thought I was sleeping with Methos. I had bruises even _after_ I woke up." 

Duncan raised his brows. 

"Yeah. Exactly. So, I went to Methos to tell him we had to leave. Must have stood there for ten minutes before he noticed me." 

"But—how?" 

"She can guard it," Methos called from the kitchen. "Her teacher showed her how." 

MacLeod looked at her quizzically, in need of a better explanation. 

"It's true. I can keep others from sensing me. Or I can keep them from sensing someone else. That's why you didn't notice me coming in." 

"Hmm." That was the strangest thing the Highlander had ever heard. 

"Anyway—where was I?" 

"Methos didn't notice you." 

"Oh yes. Of course. When he finally did, the first thing out of his mouth was—" 

"He killed you, didn't he?" Methos supplied. 

"And since it was obvious he had, dearie decided to be violent and incite a mob. William got what he deserved." 

Molly interrupted her tale as Methos came out of the kitchen with a steaming mug of hot cocoa. 

"Lucien's recipe?" she asked as she accepted the brew. 

"But of course, _Cherie._ " 

"Good." She sipped it and smiled. "Thank you." 

"You're welcome. Scooch." 

Molly scooted over to make room for him. Between the two men and the cocoa, she would soon be toasty warm. 

"Well," MacLeod prompted. "Who was the third?" 

"Flannaghan MacKinnon. Sweet guy." Molly stopped to yawn, long, and wide. 

"You need sleep, Sha'uri." 

"Oh hush, Methos. I have the rest of the century to sleep." 

"I beg to differ." 

Molly stuck her tongue out at him, then turned to Duncan." Flannaghan strangled me—" she yawned, "—because I couldn't have kids." She yawned again. "Then he—" another yawn "—hanged himself." 

"I suppose that taught you to never let Methos marry you off again?" 

Since she was in the middle of another mammoth yawn, Molly settled for a nod. She finished off her cocoa. "You know, dear, this is a bit spicier than normal. Did you—" The old woman's eyes widened in realization. "Goddammit Methos, you bloody bastard! You drugged me!" 

He shrugged. "You aren't the only one who can mix a witch's brew when the occasion calls for it." 

"I hate you," Molly hissed. 

"Yes dear." Methos was perfectly nonplussed by his friend's anger. Her scooped her up, blanket and all, and carried her to Duncan's bed. "You rest now—" 

"As if I have a choice." Punctuated by a yawn. 

"And Mac and I will go pick up a few things for you." 

"Why don't you just take me home?" 

"Do you have a place?" 

"A hotel room." 

"Exactly. An impersonal hotel room is no place for a sick girl. You're staying here. If you're better in the morning, I'll take you to my place. Where's your room key?" 

When she finished yawning, she glared and replied, "In my coat pocket. Don't you dare take my car! It's a rental!" 

"Yes dear. Sleep now." Methos leaned down and brushed her hair back, then kissed her forehead. "I love you." 

"Love you too," she murmured. Then she was gone. 

Methos turned to Duncan, who was standing by the couch, staring. "What?" 

Duncan broke the gaze. "Nothing." 

"Come on then." Methos fished through Molly's pockets for her keys then threw on his own coat and ran out with the Highlander on his heels. 

* * *

There was a black Z3 parked next to MacLeod's Thunderbird and Methos' Volvo. 

"That's her rental!" Duncan sputtered. "What agency does she use?" 

"Never accuse Molly of not being connected." Methos chuckled. "We're taking the Beamer." 

* * *

On the way back from the hotel, the two men stopped at a Rite-Aid to pick up some pain relief for Molly. 

They stood in the medicine aisle and stared. 

"What do we get?" Methos asked. 

"I have no clue. You're the one who was a doctor." 

"Yes, but Mac, that was before the invention of penicillin." Methos picked up cough medicine, Excedrin, TylenolPM, -Flu, and –Cold. "That should do. You think?" 

"Yeah, I'd say you've got everything covered." 

"Good." Methos also grabbed the latest issues of _Cosmo, Entertainment Weekly,_ and _People_ and a bag of Hershey's kisses. 

The clerk raised his pierced brow at them. "Stocking up for the winter?" he asked as he bagged the items. 

"You could say that," Methos retorted with barely concealed disgust. 

* * *

She awoke to see Methos' barely visible form looming over her. 

"Are you okay, love?" he whispered. 

"Yeah. Just a nightmare. Did you wake me?" 

Methos nodded. "You were talking. Muttering about dead roses and pictures. In the old language." 

"I was muttering about dead roses and pictures in Old Egyptian." 

"Yeah. What's that about?" 

"I have no clue. All I know is I'm glad you woke me, because that was a crazy freaking dream." 

"You're welcome." Methos took her hand in his own. "Think you can go back to sleep, or do you want to get up for a few?" 

"No." Molly yawned. "I'm exhausted. I'll sleep. G'night Methos, my dear boy. Love you." 

"Night, Mol. Love you too." 

The world's oldest immortal snuggled under the blankets, still holding her best friend's hand. She shut her eyes and refused to think about her dream, which she remembered vividly. Exhaustion and sickness soon conquered her fear though, and sleep claimed her. 

* * *

She awoke the next morning to the smell of sizzling sausage and wanted to vomit. Asleep next to her was Methos. Molly propped herself up on one elbow and smiled down at him. He looked so young when he was asleep. So innocent. Carefree. Unscarred. 

"You're so cute," she whispered. Molly kissed is cheek, then rolled over, and arose. 

"Gods, I feel like shit," she greeted Duncan. 

"Morning, Molly. Guess you're not up to sausage, eggs, and pancakes, huh?" 

"Sausage, hell no. Eggs, probably not. Pancakes, maybe. Tea would be wonderful." 

Duncan nodded and got out a mug. Silence fell whilst the Highlander made Molly tea and continued breakfast. Molly broke it, finally. 

"Uh...Duncan, can I ask you a question?" 

"Sure. What is it?" 

"Well...uh, um.... How do you think, uh, Methos would react if I, um, told him I'm being stalked?" 

"You're being WHAT?!?!" 

Molly's eyes widened. Slowly she turned, a smile plastered across her face. "Methos, good morning! Did you sleep well?" Her smile widened. "Shit," she muttered through her teeth. 

"You're being stalked?" Methos said, no less calm but more awake. "No, wait, tell me I'm dreaming. I must still be asleep." 

Molly shrugged. "You're dreaming. Time to wake up now, Methos. Would you like me to pinch you?" 

"That won't be necessary. I'm not dreaming, am I?" 

"Not at all. Sorry, lovey. Didn't mean for you to find out like this." 

Methos ran his hands through his already ruffled hair. He took a few steps toward her, then turned and walked away. He turned and held up his hand, about to speak, then shook his head and turned away. 

Molly glanced back at Duncan, biting her lip. The Scot would be no help; he was too dumbfounded by Methos. _He really needs to get used to this,_ she thought ruefully, swinging her gaze back to her best friend. 

The old man whirled. "Jesus Christ, Molly. Why didn't you call? Why didn't you tell me?!" 

"Now Methos, it isn't like this has never happened before," she assured him gently. "I didn't want to get you all worked up. Like this." 

"But what if—" he couldn't finish the thought. "What if—" Methos took a breath and tried again. "He could have— you could be—" 

Molly hurried over to him and shushed him with one finger against his lips. "Shh. Don't think about it. Nothing happened. I'm right here. I'm fine. I'm okay." She took his hands. "Calm down, love. You're freaking out. I'm fine. Look at this, you're hands are shaking. Calm down, it's okay. I'm perfectly all right." 

"But—" Methos took another shaky breath. "But—" 

"Shh. Calm down. You're all flushed. He's not here, Methos. I think I've lost him." 

"Oh gods, Molly." Methos pulled her into a tight embrace. 

She ran her hands slowly up and down his back and murmured soothingly. 

Duncan just stared in total awe. The whole situation was just too bizarre. The mere fact that Methos had such a close friend was strange. But added to that was how much he changed around her. The elusive "oldest" immortal's mask of cynicism disappeared. He was...a person. To say Molly brought out the best in him would be an understatement. To see him taking care of her was obviously rare indeed. MacLeod doubted Methos ever revealed this much vulnerability, even around her, especially when there were witnesses. He looked forward to seeing them together when Molly was well. Somehow, MacLeod saw the two making each other feel and act much younger than their true ages normally led them to behave. 

Duncan realized he was staring—an intruder on a private moment—and went back to breakfast, which was nearly finished. 

Moments later, Methos broke the silence. "You should have called." 

"I know Methos. I'm sorry." 

"Is he one of us?" 

She'd hoped he wouldn't think of that. She swallowed. "I'm not sure. Well, I think so. But I'm not sure. Really, I'm not!" 

"Well shit." 

"Uh, yeah. Tell me about it." 

They both turned when Duncan cleared his throat. With a vaguely sheepish smile, he announced, "Breakfast is ready." 

Methos and Duncan were chatting quietly over their breakfasts, discussing something important. Molly sat by one of the large windows staring out at the dreary Washington afternoon, pretending she wasn't trying to listen in. Unfortunately, she could only make out an occasional word or phrase. She didn't have the stomach to eat anything, so going over to grab food was way out of the question. _Oh gods,_ Molly thought to herself miserably. _I'm sicker than I have been in_ ages. _Some psycho immortal guy is stalking me, and to top it all off, those two are planning something._ The old woman gave a long-suffering sigh and threw a pointed look at the two men stuffing themselves. 

< _Could you two be any more obvious,_ > she half-whined to Methos. < _I know that you're planning something. Might as well spit it out. I know I won't like it._ >

Methos turned around with a smile that could only be described as sadistic. "Okay, I will. And you're right. You won't. You're not going anywhere." 

"What? I thought you said you'd take me home today." 

"You're right, I did, but now I'm not. One, it's raining, and you're sick. And two, we have to watch out for you. You're being stalked. You aren't going anywhere while you're being stalked." 

Duncan nodded his agreement, sealing his fate in her mind. He would pay for his compliance in this mutinous plot. 

Molly glared at him. "I told you Methos, I'm pretty sure I've lost him." 

"And I'm pretty sure that's bullshit. You said it yourself; you think he's one of us. He'll track you down. You know that as well as I do." 

"I can't believe this!" Molly threw up her hands. 

"You're staying right here where we can watch out for you, Molly." 

"Excuse me?" She was incredulous. "Is it only me who sees the flaw in your little plan?" 

Methos crossed his arms. 

"What's that?" Duncan asked. 

"You two are gonna protect me from the big bad stalker guy." 

They nodded. 

"Uh-huh. Um, I'm older than both of you are. Combined! I am a full thousand years older than you are Methos. How in the hell do you think I survived before you came along? By my own wits perhaps? I don't think I need you two children babysitting me. I am quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you _very_ much." 

"I quite agree with you Molly. I know! May I remind you, however, that you are being stalked?" 

"I know I'm being stalked!" Her voice went shrill. 

"You're staying here," Methos insisted quietly. 

"You can't stop me!" Her voice came down a tad. She started coughing, turned away, and bent over with the force of the spasms racking her body. 

"Look at you!" Methos cried. "You've made yourself _sick_ over this!" 

Molly stopped and looked at him. Realization dawned. She fell heavily onto the windowsill on which she had been perched. "Oh my God," she murmured. "I've made myself sick. Over this. How could I have missed this? My God. What's wrong with me?" 

Methos crossed the room to her. "Molly," he began, reaching for her hands, but she shied back. 

"No," she whispered. "Leave me alone." The old woman ducked around him and headed out the door. 

Methos made to follow her, but Duncan spoke up. "She's just going downstairs Methos. Leave her alone for a while." 

"Why should I?" Methos was defensive, but near despair. 

"You practically beat her over the head with it, Methos. It's a bit much to come to terms with. Do you want more to eat?" 

"Uh...yeah. Any more pancakes?" Methos went back to breakfast, but anxiously watched the door. 

* * *

Molly came back upstairs about an hour and a half later. 

"Where did you go?" Methos asked, voice a little more hostile than he'd intended. 

"I was downstairs. Good God, Methos, I'm not dressed, where else could I go?" She sighed in exasperation, whirled, and stormed back out. 

"Very smooth," MacLeod commented. 

"Shut-up, MacLeod!" 

When she returned, she ignored both of them, but the silence didn't last very long. She and Methos bickered all day long. Over whether or not she should eat, if she should take a nap, how bad she was feeling, and just about everything else possible. 

Duncan stood by and watched with raised eyebrows. 

MacLeod cleared his throat and she raised her head. 

"Mind if I sit?" 

"No." 

"I brought you toast and tea." Duncan offered the plate and mug. 

"Thank you." Molly took them. "Is he still upset?" 

"He's just worried about you, Molly." 

"I know he is, Duncan. Don't you think I'm more than a bit worried myself? Hell, I've made myself sick over it. Over a lousy stalker. I mean, it certainly wasn't a conscious decision." The old woman sighed and sipped the tea. 

"Are you feeling any better?" 

"Eh. A little, I guess." Molly ate a piece of the toast while Duncan stared around the darkened dojo. 

"You know," Molly spoke up suddenly, "he's being such an ass about this. I feel like shit, and he's reaming me out for not telling him. Either that or he's practically in tears. The boy needs to pick an extreme and stick to it. Or better yet, just leave me alone. I can't handle his antics on top of everything else! I've got better things to worry about than pleasing my best friend." 

The Highlander nodded but otherwise had no clue how to react. "Um. Can I get you anything else?" 

"No, thank you." He rose to leave her alone once more, but her voice stopped him from walking away. "Duncan." 

The Scot turned to look down at the young woman who had a thousand years on the oldest immortal known. 

"I'm not mad," she told him softly, wringing her hands. "At either of you. Please don't think I am. I've just got a lot on my mind right now, and Methos isn't helping at all. I'm...stressed. 

"Thank you for letting us stay here," she continued. "I do appreciate it. I'll get myself out of your hair soon, I promise." Molly coughed. 

"You're no problem," MacLeod assured. "Maybe you should come upstairs and lay down for a while." 

"I guess I should. I'll be up in a minute." 

Duncan nodded and left her. Once upstairs he announced to the older man brooding on his couch, "She's coming upstairs in a minute. Don't say anything, okay?" 

"Did she tell you to say that?" His voice was a near growl. 

"No. She's sick, Methos, whether or not she wants to be. This wasn't her decision. She's stuck here, just like you, and she needs rest to get better. So, please leave her alone. Let's have peace for a while, okay?" 

"Yeah, whatever," Methos muttered. 

A moment later, Molly made her entrance. She took her plate and mug to the sink, then went over to Duncan, and surprised them both by giving him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. 

"Goodnight," she said. 

Then she went over to where Methos was sprawled and gave him a look that ordered him to stand up. He did so, and she wrapped her arms around him and clung to him. Methos put his arms around her in a similar gesture. Then she let go and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Goodnight, boy." 

"G'night, love," he replied. 

* * *

Methos opened his eyes. He was lying on his back in Duncan's bed. The old man lifted his arm and squinted at his watch. 

"It's two fifty-seven," Molly said quietly from beside and slightly above him. 

Methos propelled himself into a sitting position. "How long have you been awake?" he asked quietly. 

"I don't know. A while." 

"What have you been doing?" 

"Just sitting here. Thinking, mostly." 

"About what?" 

"This-n-that. Not much, really. Do you remember when we first met?" 

"Of course not, Mol. I was only a few months old." 

Molly sighed. That one sound told him she thought his comment asinine. "No. After your first death." 

"How can I forget? You killed me. _Again._ " 

"You were a stubborn ass then, and you're still a stubborn ass now. One would think that after five thousand bloody years, you'd learn to listen." 

* * *

**_Egypt, ? BC_**

Methos' eyes blinked open. He had no clue where he was. His surroundings were not at all familiar. Curious and more than a little alarmed, he sat up, trying to ignore the pain it caused. When that arduous task was completed, the young man sucked his breath in through his teeth and held it with eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the pain to cease, hoping it would. 

In only a few scant moments, the colours dancing wildly behind his shut lids faded into welcome blackness and he could once more draw breath without it searing his throat and head. Methos opened his eyes and looked down at himself. 

_Where are my clothes?_ His first coherent thought. He wore a simple brown robe over a coarse linen kilt, nowhere near the quality of his normal garb. Looking down at his feet, Methos was relieved to see that at least his sandals were his own, not those of some farmer like the rest of what he wore. He wiggled his toes, glad they still worked. There were odd brownish-red spots splashed across his feet and lower legs. Methos shrugged, not concerned with a little dirt. He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. Then he clapped. 

_I can hear. I can see._ Methos took a whiff of his robe. It was rank. 

_I can smell. Unfortunately._ He licked the back of his hand. _I can taste._

He put his hand on his chest and felt the beating of his heart. _I can feel. My heart beats. Odd sort of thing to do when one is dead._

"I can talk," he said. _It is nice to know that I am possessed of all my senses, even here in the afterlife. They will well serve me when I join my ancestors._

Methos glanced around himself quickly, taking in some of his surroundings. He was in a tent, like the ones the nomadic tribal herders lived in. _Odd sort of place to spend the time before my judgment is in._

The young dead man started when he heard the voice behind him. It was a voice that he'd not heard since he was twelve seasons old. That voice was nearer and dearer to him than anything. It comprised his first memory, his favourite memories, and the bulk of his early memories. 

"I was hoping you would have a few more seasons behind you, my little boy." She sounded inordinately proud, pleased to see him, and as arrogant as always. 

Methos twisted around to face her, instinctively turning all of his attentions to her voice, to her. 

She laughed, a sound Methos had gone too long without. Her laugh was music. "You always did do that. Turn, I mean. Whenever you hear my voice. Even as a babe, you did it. It pleases me to see that you still do." 

He hadn't seen the girl in years. He'd missed her terribly ever since that tearful day long ago when she had abandoned him. Of course, over those years he'd come to understand that she hadn't actually abandoned him, what she had said was indeed true, he was too old for a nurse, he needed proper teachers. 

"Nefret?" he questioned. "Is it truly you?" Methos scrambled to his knees and reached out to touch her cheek. She felt real enough. His old nurse, his childhood best friend, the woman who had been more a mother to him than his own, whom he'd sworn in adolescent adoration that he'd marry, until she left. He'd never spoken of her again after that, but he'd thought about her often. 

She remained where she was, her knees drawn up, in the position she'd always assumed when she was preparing to tell a story. "Yes, Methos," she replied to his silly question. "Who else could I be?" 

Methos took both of her hands in his own, hardly believing what was before him. She should be an old woman, and dead by now, yet she wasn't. Instead, she was exactly as he remembered. Exactly as he had always wanted her to be. She hadn't aged a single day. Methos had always assumed that the dead took on their most beautiful form for the afterlife, and this proved him true. 

"It's been so long, Nefret! How I've missed you!" 

"And I you, my dear boy. How have you been?" 

"I am well. Mother and Father both passed into the next life, gods above bless them both, a few seasons ago. A strange sickness took them both together. I, of course, took over for Father. Haven't yet had time to marry." 

"That's good." 

"Good?! Nefret, how can you say such a thing? It was my duty to carry on our family. You should understand that. I have failed." 

Nefret shook her head. "No connections, Methos. It's better this way. Easier for you to leave." 

"But I have _failed,_ Nefret. I have died." 

Again, she shook her head, this time with a smile. "No, Methos. Your life has just begun. We must leave here soon. By the gods, I have to find you a sword." 

Methos looked at her as though he believed her to be mad. 

"My boy, do you remember the story I told you of Sha'uri? It was you favourite. I told you how she defied her father's wishes on whom she should marry because she was in love with another, and how the man whom her father favored drowned her in the sacred river. Do you remember?" 

"Yes of course I remember. Why?" 

"Well, I never finished that story." 

"Yes you did. She died." 

"No. Sha'uri's death was only the beginning. Shall I finish the story for you now?" 

Methos shrugged, trying to hide his curiosity. "If you like." 

Nefret smiled at him. "Sha'uri woke up. She had no clue how long it had been or exactly where she was, just that she was on the other side of the great river." 

Methos leaned forward, quietly making himself more comfortable. He was amazed at how cool and unhindering the clothes he wore were. Nefret's voice enchanted him, just as it always had. The memory of her singing him to sleep as a child momentarily distracted him, but she continued her story and he was drawn into it. 

"The young woman believed herself to be dead, but she wasn't at her judgment. There were no gods around her. There was no one around her. Confused and convinced that she was forever damned for some unfathomable reason, Sha'uri wandered into the desert. All alone, with no food or shelter, she died many times. She didn't realise that she had died repeatedly; she didn't realise her true nature. Sha'uri spent a lot of time in between deaths thinking about her beliefs, questioning everything she had ever been taught. She knew she should be damned for her blasphemous thoughts, but she didn't care, couldn't make herself care; she thought she had already been damned." 

Methos watched his old nurse. She seemed nearly oblivious to him, lost in a story obviously near and dear to her. 

"Sha'uri believed that she was doomed to walk the desert for the rest of eternity with no rest from the relentless heat and no food or drink to quench herself. One day, as Sha'uri was deliriously nearing death once more, she was discovered by a man who appeared not much older than she was. She couldn't speak to tell him to leave her or be damned as well, so she just stared at him whilst he gathered her up in his arms and carried her into the cool shade of his tent. The young man nursed her back to health, which didn't take long because she was a quick healer. Once she was coherent enough to hear and understand him, he explained to her everything-who he was, how old he was, what both of them were, and that he would be teaching her how to survive. 

"Curious nearly to a fault, she asked him what exactly he would be teaching her, and he replied that he would be teaching her the ways of her people. Sha'uri scoffed at him, saying she already knew the ways of her people, after all she had been raised among them. Patiently, he explained he would be teaching her the ways of immortals, her true people. 'You have not been damned by your gods,' he told her. 'You belong to no gods.' Sha'uri still didn't believe him. So, he killed her. He stabbed her with a short dagger." Nefret placed her hand over her heart in a subconscious indication of where. 

"The second time around, she was more willing to believe him. She listened to the story again and began to accept it. He taught her everything she needed to know to survive, plus a few extra things that have been very handy in times of need. 

"Years later, Sha'uri returned to the other side of the Nile and her family. She changed her name and became nurse to her brother's children's children. Every other generation she returned to care for the members of her family. Well, she tried, at least. Before you, it was one hundred seventy seasons before her last appearance. She returned from the north and the sea just in time to care for a wee one given the name of Methos by his adoptive parents. 

"No immortal knows their true parents. We just appear, and have to hope for the best. 

"Sha'uri watched the wee boy grow into a wonderful young man. She loved him dearly, as though he were her own child. All too soon, the time came when she had to leave him. He didn't need a nurse anymore, he needed proper teachers; he wouldn't need her again until after his first death, when he would join the ranks of immortals and be forced to play the Game. That day was the hardest of her already long life. Oh, the heartbreak she caused her little boy. She longed to assure him they would see each other again definitely, but she couldn't be direct without revealing his destiny. Do you remember what I told you before I left, Methos?" 

"You said we would be together again in my next life." 

"Exactly. Well...here we are." Nefret shrugged. 

Methos nodded. "Nefret, are you telling me you are my ancestress, Sha'uri?" 

"A bit of a nice twist there at the end, don't you agree?" 

"Yes, but that doesn't make it any more possible. She died. Ages ago." 

"And I've died more than a few times since then. I do not remain dead. Nor will you. We are immortal. You will always remain as you are now." 

"Nefret, this isn't possible. None of it. No one lives forever. It isn't possible. It's absurd." 

"Oh dear," Nefret/Sha'uri murmured, running a hand through her long black hair, then drawing a short dagger from its sheath on her calf. "Let me show you." 

She bit her lip and drew the blade across her palm, slicing the skin deep. 

Methos grabbed her hand and looked around for something to stop the blood flow. 

"No," she said softly, in pain. "Just watch." 

While he watched in an awed stupor, the wound knitted itself back together, leaving not a trace behind except the spilled blood. Before he was able to recover from his shock, before he could react, she reached out and sliced his forearm open. 

"OW!" Methos cried, holding his wounded arm close against himself. Nefret grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm away from his body. 

"Watch," she ordered in such a way that he could only obey. 

The young immortal's eyes widened even further as his arm healed the same way hers had. 

"How is this possible?" he cried. "What trickery is this?" He looked into her eyes. "You are a sorceress!" he accused. 

Nefret sighed and shook her head. "No, boy. I am not. We are the same. We are immortal." 

Methos covered his ears. "No! I will not listen to your lies! I am damned!" 

"You have not been damned by your gods," she said quietly. "You belong to no gods." 

"Do not speak so lightly to the dead, Nefret." There was fire in his voice and blazing in his eyes. 

"I speak the truth." The ice in her voice and her chilling eyes brought him the fear that she was telling the truth. 

Methos turned away from her. "Leave me, witch. I have a long journey ahead of me." 

"Aye, that you do." Her voice was gentle now. "There is much you must learn if you are to survive, much I must yet teach you. Starting with respect for your elders. I am sorry to be forced to do this, boy." 

He looked back at her. She was approaching him with the dagger. 

* * *

"You were even more stubborn than I was," Molly observed dryly. 

Methos chuckled. "I was a stupid child. I'd just died. I was in denial." 

"Can't argue with you on that." 

"Thank you." 

"No prob." 

A few minutes of silence passed. Methos broke it by murmuring something that Molly didn't quite hear. 

"What was that?" 

"I said, I'm sorry." 

"Oh are you." 

"Yes, I am. But I'm also worried about you. You've never done this before. It's freaky." 

"I know that. And I realise you mean well, love. Doesn't make your nagging any easier to take. Gods above, I feel like I'm married to you." 

Methos was silent for a moment. Molly thought it was chagrin. But when he spoke again, it was with a smile in his voice. "Molly, you are married to me." 

Molly sputtered. "Well, that's a horse of a different color!" 

"Shh, don't wake Duncan." 

"Screw Duncan," she pouted. 

"No comment." 

"And isn't that probably a good thing." They shared a chuckle. 

"Why don't you try to get some sleep now." 

"You're doing it again." 

"I'm tired," Methos whined. "I want to sleep, Molly." 

"So sleep." 

"You first." 

People in Kansas probably heard Molly's sigh of exasperation. " _Fine._ Good God, Methos." She slapped him on the arm then lay down. 

Methos sat up until he heard her breathing even out and sensed her thoughts go quiet. He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then slipped under the cover himself and was soon asleep. 

* * *

"Molly." He spoke in a singsong voice, and gently tapped her cheeks. "Come on, lovey-dahling. Time to wake up." 

She groaned in response and slapped his hand away. 

"Molly dear, wake up. Please." The old woman opened one eye and looked at him. "Good. Now open the other, love." Molly shut her open eye and opened the other. "Very funny. Open them both." 

She did, to glare up at him. 

"Come on, time to get up." 

"Why?" she growled. 

"We have to go visit Joe. See if we can find out who it is that's after you." 

"Go without me." 

"What? No. No way. Uh-uh. You have to come with us. We can't leave you alone to go figure out who your _stalker_ is." 

"Go without me," she repeated. "Let me sleep." 

"Molly, you're-" 

"I _know._ Must you remind me on an hourly basis? Go. Without. Me. I will be fine. He's not here yet. Trust me. I'd know." 

"A-are you certain? You'll be okay?" 

"Yes. I shall be fine. Let me sleep, brat." 

"All right. I'll leave the number and the address by the phone, okay?" 

"Fine. Whatever. Go." Molly turned over and pulled the covers over her head. 

"Well, okay then. Bye." 

"Good-bye. Leave." 

With enormous reluctance, her self-appointed keeper left. Duncan practically had to drag him. 

  
"I don't like doing this," he muttered as he slipped into the passenger seat of Duncan's Thunderbird. "Leaving her all alone like this. It doesn't feel right. What if something happens? What if-" 

"Come on, Methos. She's a big girl. She knows how to handle herself. If something happens, she'll deal with it. Or else, she'll call. I mean, what's the worst that can happen? She says the guy isn't here yet. What, Richie'll show up, maybe. I'm sure they'd get along quite well. The scariest thing about that is how well they'd probably get along. Don't you think you're taking the over-protective thing a little _too_ far?" 

Methos slanted the Scot a look that said, 'oh, and you're one to talk.' But he didn't reply. 

After a few minutes blessedly free of Methos' worrying out loud, Duncan spoke again. "Is she really older than you, Methos?" 

"Yes," the older man replied without hesitation. "Molly...taught me everything. Not just how to wield a weapon. She raised me, taught me to read, the legends and stories of our people, how to defend myself as a child...." Methos realised the vulnerability inherent in his confession and shut up. After a moment of silence, he spoke again, however. "She is the one single constant in my life." 

* * *

Molly couldn't fall back to sleep. "Stupid bastard," she muttered as she crawled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom for a shower. 

The hot water and the meal of juice and toast she ate afterward did a lot of good for her mood and her disposition. After eating, the world's oldest living being quickly grew bored. 

_Dammit, I should have gone with them._

She wanted to meet Joe Dawson. Through his years as a Watcher, Methos had told her numerous things of his colleague. She suspected she and the Watcher would get along well. Her best friend certainly spoke highly of him, and it was unlike Methos to become close friends with mortals, let alone Watchers. That in itself impressed her, though she doubted Joe knew of it, or ever would. 

Molly wandered over to one of the large windows designed to admit as much of the mid-morning sun as possible and stared out at the world. Duncan's view was certainly nothing to write home about, but neither was it the worst she'd ever been privy too. 

It was when she allowed her mind to wander out beyond the buildings surroundings that she realised someone was watching her. The familiar feeling of being stripped to the skin and displayed publicly washed over her, followed closely by an overwhelming urge to vomit. Molly ducked away from the portal and attempted to calm her breathing and stave off panic. 

_Oh shit. He's here. Oh shit. He's here._

  
Iain Fitzrichard smiled when he saw the young woman realise she was being looked at. Before she ducked away he saw nausea sweep over her, and his smile widened. 

The game of cat and mouse had been fun. He had enjoyed it thoroughly. The young immortal grew skittish quickly. The small gifts he had sent spooked her, and she ran to him, exactly as Iain had known and hoped she would. Over the centuries of searching for The Bastard, he had seen the older immortal together with the young woman he now watched a few times, from afar. They avoided other immortals, and very well. If they ever sensed his presence, they disappeared. But those few fleeting glimpses had been enough for Iain to formulate his plans. They were lovers or something quite close to it, and they were obviously very close, since he'd seen them always together over the years. He would do to The Bastard what the older immortal had done to him. He had hoped that when the young one realised that she had a constant and menacing companion, she would run to him, to her lover, the man who had killed Azenor (Ah-ZAY-nor), his wife. 

He'd been right. 

* * *

**_England, outside Canterbury, 1356_**

The innkeeper opened his front door and was faced with a couple who didn't look at all like they were pilgrims. One of them was immortal. 

Methos was about to tell the beggars to go around the back if they needed a meal. Then he realised they weren't beggars. There was a gold band encircling a finger on the hand the woman had draped around her husband's shoulders. The shoes both of them wore were too new to belong to one of the unfortunate poor. Their clothing was too well kept; it hadn't yet been mended so much that its original color was lost. 

Gypsies. 

She was slumped against the taller man who held her upright. A good number of strands of her long dark hair tumbled out from underneath the colorful scarf on her head and across her face, obscuring her features. She was mostly unconscious. The man beside her, her husband, was much taller. She looked tiny beside him. His hair, his coloring, nearly everything about him was lighter than she was. Except perhaps, his mood. He did not look like a happy man. He looked tired and uncomfortable, worried and in need of a good meal. 

"Please," he spoke, "I mean you no harm. I don't want a fight. My wife," he shifted her dead weight on his hip, "is very sick. She needs help." 

_Great,_ Methos thought. _An immortal and his sick wife. Just the customers I need._

Iain saw the doubt in the immortal innkeeper's eyes. He couldn't blame the man for his wariness. Times were hard. Rumors of the plague devastating the Near East ran high, each repetition adding to the horrors. People were tense; waiting for the sickness to reach their own ports, at the same time hoping and praying it would skip the British Isles. Canterbury overflowed with more than the usual number of pilgrims. A man who took in a sick woman, even if she suffered from a mere cold, was not a man who wanted to remain in business. Taking in another immortal was never the best of ideas, though that was not the concern of normal people. 

He would not beg, but Iain was nearing desperation. Three other inns had already turned him away, slammed their doors in his face. Being a peddler-a gypsy-did not win him favor with local pub owners, and the sick woman in his arms made the looks he got even more dirty than usual. 

"Please," he repeated. Then he fell silent and just gazed at the immortal man. He could see indecision in the proprietor's eyes, and he prayed. Already this innkeeper had taken longer to reach a decision than any other, which was a good sign. Hopefully. 

Methos stared at the younger immortal, trying to decide what he should do. Take them in? Turn them away? The questions warred with each other and the possible answers in his head. Part of him, the portion that understood all too well how monstrous people could be-especially immortal people-warned him of a trap. A more compassionate facet saw a man with a sick wife who would surely die if she didn't get help. It whispered to him that if she was left to camp outside during the cold night she would die, and it would be on his head for not taking her in. 

The compassionate whispers won the war. He took pity on them, reluctantly. _I didn't like being an innkeeper anyway. I'll go find Molly._ The last he'd heard from her, she was in France, with Darius. 

Methos glanced around behind himself and glanced at the street outside, which was surprisingly free of traffic, perhaps because of the storm that looked to be brewing. 

"Come in," he said, standing back and gesturing for them to enter. 

_You're going to regret this,_ a soft, pragmatic voice told him. 

* * *

Molly poked her head out from under the covers. 

"You're being silly. Get up and do something." 

She got out of Duncan's bed and sat against its side trying to decide what to do. Apparently, she'd been sorely mistaken. Her immortal stalker had found her already. She'd been so sure he was far behind her. She'd been so careful. 

"No use fretting over it now, Mol. What's done is done. You have more important things to deal with now. Like, how the hell to get out of here without Mr. Stalker Dude seeing it." 

Molly sighed. "Okay, how are you feeling? Besides the panic." 

"All right," she answered herself. "Not nearly as bad as earlier this week." 

"Maybe visiting with Methos, Duncan, and the Watcher wouldn't be such a bad idea after all. Being here all alone is certainly quite boring." 

"Yes, you know, you're quite right. Brilliant idea Molly. That would be fun. Let's go visit with those three." 

Molly peeked over the top of the bed. Of course, she didn't see anyone, but just to be on the safe side, she crawled across the loft on her hands and knees anyway. Once she reached her destination, the phone, she reached up and ripped the sheet of paper Methos had taped up against the wall down. 

'Joe's Bar,' it read in Methos' nearly illegible old-fashioned hand. Underneath that heading was the phone number and address. Below that a scribbled order: 'Call if you need anything!' 

"Damn doctor's handwriting," she muttered, shoving the paper into her pocket. 

The old woman crawled over to Duncan's coat rack and pulled her trench coat and purse down. The coat clattered reassuringly as it hit the floor. Molly slipped into it on her knees, then rummaged through her pockets and purse for her keys. She dashed downstairs and bolted out to the adorable Z3. She didn't let out the breath she held until the door lock clicked down. Molly found the map she'd purchased from the rental agency and worked out a route to Joe's. It wouldn't take more than five minutes to get there. 

Molly inserted the key into the ignition and turned. Nothing. She returned it to the lock position and tried again. Nothing. 

"Oh no!" she whispered. "Oh no, oh no, oh no." 

Molly repeated the process at least six more times, along with her constant litany, to no avail. The engine didn't even attempt to turn over. Each time there was only a dead click. 

"Oh no!" she moaned, banging her head on the steering wheel a few times and repeating the phrase each time. She cursed the car with enough color to make a Mediterranean pirate blush, then grabbed her purse and map and bolted back up to MacLeod's loft. 

She slammed the door and sank to the floor leaning against it. At least he couldn't see her in this corner. 

"I must think. I need a plan. I must get out of here." 

* * *

Iain watched, chuckling, as she crawled around the loft. Either she was completely around the bend, or she was trying to stay out of sight. He wished he could assume the first, but he feared the truth to be the latter. 

She had proven strong of will and mind. He had tormented her for months before she ran to Robert Adamson-Adam Pearson as he was now called. He had watched in glee as his beautiful mouse had first realised that there were eyes following her. In the beginning, she shrugged the feeling off, ignoring it totally or else laughing and joking over it with those around her. Slowly, she began to withdraw into herself. Increasingly often, she felt the eyes upon her, and she could ignore it no longer. The young woman grew skittish and restless. Every sound made her jump. She could no longer sleep through the night. Soon, she barely slept at all. 

It was then that Iain began to make his presence more solid. He sent her pictures of herself that he'd taken with his camera and telephoto lens. He sent her a bouquet of red roses that were mostly dead. He sent her a tiny white mouse. It died within an hour of her receiving it. Iain had poisoned it. Once, he got close enough to her that she could sense his presence. 

That was when she ran to her lover. 

* * *

**_England, outside Canterbury, 1356_**

Later that evening.... 

The young peddler walked into the pub just as the last of the locals were filing out, calling their cheerful good-byes to the barkeep, who returned them and waved. 

Methos eyed the immortal who sat down at the bar and got out a rag to wipe it and the tables down. His lone waitress was clearing tables. 

"I...wanted to thank you," Iain spoke up. 

"Why?" replied Methos, not looking up from his task. "I don't run a charity house here, friend." His tone made it obvious he considered the newcomer no friend. 

"That's not what I heard." 

Methos whirled. "What have you heard?" 

"If someone is in need of a good meal, they should come here." 

Methos glared at him. "Where did you hear that?" he growled. 

Iain shrugged. "People talk. Gypsies aren't very different from beggars, you know." 

"You aren't a gypsy." 

"But my wife is. I just wanted to thank you for letting us stay here. I have every intention of paying for our board." 

Methos heard the unsaid 'But....' He sighed, not wanting to know. Morbid curiosity got the better of him. "But?" 

"I don't...know how I can leave Azenor, my wife, alone in this condition." 

Again, the old immortal sighed. Did he need this man's money? Yes. The inn was barely scraping by as it was. Every bit was needed. _Damn, damn, damn._

"Someone will look after your woman whilst you do...whatever it is you do." 

"Thank you," the young man answered, a smile spreading across his face. It was obvious that paying for his board was a matter of honor. 

Methos rolled his eyes. 

The young man hurried over and offered his hand. "Iain Fitzrichard," he introduced. 

Methos wiped his hands on his rag then crossed them. "Robert Adamson," he replied. 

Iain withdrew his hand and wiped it on his tunic. "Yes...well...uh, thank you." 

The barkeep sighed, an action fast becoming habit around this young immortal. "Are you hungry?" 

"Well, yes, actually." 

"Sit down then," he ordered. "Madge!" 

She came out of the kitchen, scowling. "What?" 

"Get our customer a bowl of stew. Now." 

The waitress nodded and disappeared, muttering to herself. Methos went behind the bar and poured ale, and slapped it down in front of Iain, who started in reaction. 

"On the house," he said. When Iain started to protest, Methos held up his hand. "This ain't out of kindness, Fitzrichard. I don't feel like recounting the till. So keep quiet and enjoy your food." 

* * *

He was saddled with a banshee. 

Azenor's first words to him the next day when he brought her soup and bread were "Is this the best room you have?" 

Without giving him a chance to answer, she continued, "Because I certainly deserve better than this. What a disgusting room. It _smells._ " 

Methos stared at her coolly until it was clear she had finished her tirade. Then he set the tray beside her and leaned in close. 

"What you see is what you get," he said softly, dangerously. He smiled sweetly as she stared wide-eyed at him, then left her. 

Within the next two days, he was repeatedly accused of trying to kill her. He tried to strangle her with the cloth he was using to cool her fever. Her food tasted funny. He was trying to poison her. He plumped her pillows, on her insistence, with the intention of suffocating her. He opened the window to air the room and was going to push her out of it. He brought water for her to bathe in and she knew he wanted to drown her in it. 

The woman gave him a headache. 

Repeatedly Methos tried to convince Iain how odd she was acting, but her husband insisted it was her illness. But it wasn't Iain who cared for the woman, who watched as her body mended itself, but her ranting grew ever louder and more persistent. 

* * *

"What did you do to him?" Her voice was shrill. 

Methos twisted around in his chair by the fire. Azenor stood in the door, disheveled and not quite steady on her feet. There was a sword in her hand. 

"What?" he replied. 

"What did you do with my husband? Where is Iain?" Her voice went up a notch. 

_Oh. Great. I knew I'd regret this._

"I know what you are," she continued. "You're like him. Immortal. Did you kill him? Did you take his head? Did you?!" 

_Well this is just wonderful._ Methos stood slowly. _She's gone completely mad. Just wonderful._

"I don't know where Iain is," he said, careful to keep his tone low and soothing. 

"You killed him!" Azenor screeched. "You've been trying to kill me all week and now you've killed him! I hate you!" 

"Azenor. I did not kill your husband. He has not yet returned. I have not been trying to kill you all week. I have been helping you get better." Methos took a step towards her, holding out his hand. "Now why don't you hand me the sword, and we can wait for Iain to come home, and then you two...lovebirds can be on your merry way...away from here.... How does that sound?" 

"No." Her voice was on the opposite end of the spectrum now, a growl. 

_I was afraid of that._

"You killed my Iain. Now I will kill you. What is your kind's phrase? There can be only one?" 

"Yes," Methos sighed, reaching for his own blade. "Have you ever even done this before?" 

"My husband taught me to defend myself." She lunged at him. 

_Wonderful._

The young woman wasn't terribly bad with the weapon. Methos concentrated on defending himself, not wanting to hurt her, hoping Iain would show up soon and stop this madness. 

Somehow, she managed to slip a thrust through his defenses, slashing him across the chest. As she went for his head, he did the only thing he could. He angled his own blade up, into, and through her body. Azenor made a gurgling sound and collapsed. 

It was then that Iain decided to make his entrance. He saw his wife on the floor in a growing pool of her own blood, cried out, and flew to her side. 

"Iain," she whispered with a faint smile. Her bloody fingertips brushed his cheek. "My love." 

"Norig (NOH-reeg)," he whispered, cradling her in his arms. "I love you." 

She smiled up at him and breathed her last. 

Iain look up at the innkeeper, who had gained his feet and his sword and stood by the fireplace, drinking a mug of ale. He finished it in four gulps. 

"Fight me," Iain ordered, standing, and picking up the sword his wife had used. 

"No." 

"You killed my wife, you son of a bitch. Fight me. Now." 

"No," Methos repeated. "You don't understand, Iain. She was mad. She attacked me, accusing me of killing you. I've been trying to make you understand this all week. She believed I was trying to kill her. She accused me of it twice daily." 

"No! I don't believe you! I loved her!" 

"You were blind!" 

"Love is blind!" 

Methos sighed. "Obviously." 

"And so is justice." Iain raised his sword. 

"Maybe she is," Methos said softly. "But revenge sees red, doesn't she?" 

Iain screamed and charged. 

Methos killed him, not permanently. When Iain awoke, the bastard was gone. 

* * *

She decided to run for it. She'd remained by the door all the while she got herself calm and under control. He didn't know where she was, up here, in the dojo, or elsewhere. 

Happy to have a plan, albeit a flimsy one, Molly stood and left. 

She went out the back of Duncan's building and kept her steps quiet, praying silently the whole time. 

Iain saw her leave the back way on one of the monitors he had set up. Each one showed the view according to one of the few cameras he's set up to watch different angles of the building. After all, he couldn't be everywhere at once. 

_I'm almost there!_ Molly wanted to jump for joy. Instead she hurried her steps and glanced behind her. Four feet further, and she sensed another. 

_Oh shit._ Panic welled up in her throat, constricting her breathing. She forced it back down and ignored it. 

Further up the unfortunately deserted street, the other stepped out of the shadows. 

"Molly, my little mouse," he called. "How nice to finally meet you face to face. Formally, so to speak." 

"What." 

"Oh, you wouldn't know it, but I have seen you before. With _him._ I'm glad we can finally introduce ourselves properly. I am Iain Fitzrichard. And you are Molly MacLaurin. Draw your sword and prepare to lose your head, little mouse." 

"I don't want to fight you Iain." 

"Where have I heard that before?" the tall man sneered. 

"Your fight is with Adam, not with me, Iain. Let it go. Let me go." 

"That's where you're wrong, little mouse. He-" 

"I know, I know. He killed your wife, for no good reason, and now you're after me. How...vengeful." 

"How-" 

"Adam told me. He's my best friend, idiot." 

"He killed the love of my life. Now I return the favor." 

"I don't think you quite understand our relationship." Molly sighed. "Oh well. Let's get this done with." 

"Eager to die?" 

"No. Eager to kill you and go meet my friend." 

"As you wish, my little mouse." 

Iain lunged, and so the combat to the death began. 

She was good. Much better than he'd expected. But she was recovering from illness, her strength was barely there, and sapped quickly. Soon, she was thoroughly on the defensive, with no way to get a move in edgewise. She was losing. 

_Oh gods above,_ she thought. 

Iain stabbed her in the side, a kidney shot. She staggered back and blocked his next attack, but barely. 

< _Methos! Please help me!_ >

  
Duncan and Joe looked over in surprise at the sound of glass shattering. Methos was by the bar, one hand against it to steady himself, the other against his side, his beer bottle in shards on the floor. There was a look of acute pain on his face. 

"What's wrong?" Joe asked. 

"Methos?" Duncan added. 

Methos completely ignored them. "Oh shit," he murmured. "Molly." Then he grabbed his coat and bolted. 

  
Methos reached the street just as Iain was sinking a dagger into his best friend's heart. He felt it as if it were sinking into his own heart. Suddenly he realised how Iain had felt. He was still going to take the bastard's head for stalking and trying to kill her, but he understood how Iain felt. 

The world's oldest man drew his sword. "Iain Fitzrichard," he called out. 

The other immortal dropped the corpse of the woman and turned. 

"Adam Pearson," he replied. "How are you?" 

"Oh I'll be just fine once I take your head." 

What Iain meant to say in reply was 'I'm already engaged in a duel to the death, 'fraid you'll just have to wait your turn.' But suddenly his wife was with him. Azenor stood behind him. "Kill the bastard," she whispered. "He murdered me in cold blood. He deserves to die." 

So instead Iain said, "I'd like to see you try." 

Methos did. And won. Easily. 

Afterward, Methos hurried to Molly's side and gathered her in his arms. He removed the dagger from her chest and waited for her to breathe again. In short time, she did. Her eyes flickered open. 

Methos looked down at her and tried to smile. "Hi," he said, helping her sit up. 

Molly started to cough. 

"Sha'uri? You okay?" 

"No," she growled. "I'm getting way to old for this. Wish I could just bloody retire. Help me up." 

Methos did, laughing the whole time. The sound lightened her mood and her heart. She felt better already. 

"I need a new shirt," she added. "Dammit, I liked this shirt." 

Methos put his arm around her shoulders. "Come on, love. Let's get you a new shirt." 

Molly smiled and slipped her arm around his waist. "Ok. You buying?" 

Methos groaned. "Do I have to?" 

"Yes." 

"Really? I don't want to." 

Arguing cheerfully, they walked away together. 

~Finis~ 

* * *

**_Epilogue_**

Molly was stuffing her few things back into the duffel bag that Methos had brought for her. Duncan took her trench coat off its hook on his coat rack and approached her. 

"So, I suppose you can explain," he said. 

"Explain what?" she replied, without looking at him. 

"Him. You've known him forever. Can you explain him?" 

"Of course I can, Duncan." She zipped the bag and turned to him. 

"Well, do please enlighten me." 

Molly took her coat and put it on, then slung the duffel over her shoulder. "You don't win or lose if you don't run the race," she said. 

"That's not an explanation, that's a riddle!" Duncan sputtered. 

She smiled esoterically and patted his cheek with a patronizing air. "Exactly." Then she walked out. 

* * *

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